


Come Up and Dance with Death

by appalachian_fireflies



Series: Born From the Earth Fics [1]
Category: Born From the Earth- Venusm, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dissociation, Flashbacks, M/M, Murder, Omega/Omega, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Sexism, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: “Tony thinks of Alex driving them that first time.  How Alex had been calm the whole way through the plan, but how, twenty minutes from where they were dumping the car, Alex had pulled over.The pale blur of Alex’s face as he scrambles out before he’s even shut off the engine, falls to his knees, barely makes it to the gutter before being sick.How much had it cost Alex to learn how to kill people?” – Venusm, Born From the Earth





	Come Up and Dance with Death

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic of Venusm’s epic Born From the Earth- all credit for these brilliant characters, the worldbuilding, everything goes to them. Thanks for giving permission for others to play in your sandbox! It’s possible Venusm already wrote this as an outtake or will write it, in which case, excellent, let’s all agree to pretend I never wrote this. *nervous laughter ha oh god 
> 
> If you have any trigger concerns re: this fic, please feel free to message me.

Sam Hoover’s cabin is a charming Craftsman, tall glass windows and white-columned porch. It’s modest, for a man of his means, but the property is not. The Adirondacks are a stunning vista beyond the granite ledge that supports the home’s foundations, and there are no neighbors in sight. The private road alone must cost in the millions to pave and repair. 

Snow begins to fall, and with the last failing light of the sun Alex stands solidly on the granite ledge, peering down into the valley below. The winds are strong out on the ridge, cold on his exposed neck. 

Tony emerges from the forest above, a dark shadow by the side door. He’s hidden the Camry, and has begun working on the security system. It’s state-of-the-art, recently upgraded. Alex skirts a broad patch of ice to climb the ridge, and by the time he’s topped it Tony has the door open. 

The flooring of the great room is hardwood, not wide plank but mass-produced interlocking strips. No small cracks for any hairs or fibers to lodge themselves in. 

Alex closes the door behind himself and breathes for a moment, feeling his feet on the ground. He has a gun tucked beneath his coat, but he’s not to fire it except out of necessity. It’s more for show than anything, a potential liability if it is taken from him. 

Tony is setting up an array of sensors by the door, muttering as he works. A tinny, mechanical voice replies, one Alex has heard once or twice before in the workshop. Tony will know whether Sam Hoover has any hidden weapons or electronics before he’s cleared the vestibule. 

The thermostat beeps on behind him, and Alex startles, then chastises himself for doing so. The blue glow of the LED is the only light in the space, and Tony sits on one of the handmade wooden chairs that are so common at roadside stops in the area. He flicks on the table lamp, then flicks it off again. 

“Thirty minutes, give or take,” Tony’s voice echoes to the high ceiling. His posture is relaxed as the heat kicks on- remote start. Not triggered when they walked in. Tony looks at the door, then at Alex, and the message is clear. Last chance to back out. 

Alex sits, and Tony looks away. 

When the headlights of Hoover’s Mercedes shine through the windows, there is about an inch of powder on the ground. Alex slips into the shadows of the decorative bookshelf by the front door, leaving enough room to maneuver if need be. Tony remains seated, fingers brushing the drawstring of the lamp. 

Hoover’s steps echo on the porch, and the lock beeps with each number entered on the pad. Alex breathes, and he feels his body shift- focused, predatory. The adrenaline is nothing he fears; it’s familiar, and he’s ready. 

Hoover resets the alarm, pauses to stomp off his shoes by the door. 

_Wait,_ he hears Nate’s voice in the back of his mind. _Wait for your opening._

Hoover pauses in the entryway, and reaches a hand beneath his coat. Alex tenses. 

The metal drawstring of the lamp hisses just seconds before the incandescent light pools around Tony, and Alex sees Hoover fumble the gun in his surprise. It’s almost too easy to dart forward, knock the gun from his hand and kick it across the floor, recover out of striking distance. It’s muscle memory that feels like instinct, and Hoover is blinking in confusion when it’s done. 

“Hello, Sam,” Tony says. 

Hoover makes a delayed movement towards his gun, but Alex blocks him, raises his own. The barrel is pointed at Hoover’s torso, steady. 

“Worried about something?” Tony hasn’t moved from his casual sprawl. “Not your best move to come all the way out here, but it’s difficult not to know who you can trust, isn’t it?”

“Is Stevens here?” Hoover peers into the shadows, sneers at Tony. “Come to watch him kill me?”

Tony cocks his head. “You think I put the hit out on Reeves?” 

“As soon as you took the board’s money,” Hoover’s lips go thin, disapproving. His skin is pale in the low light, comb-over wild from the wind. 

“Huh,” Tony sits up. “Everyone says Reeves was Obie’s hit.” 

Hover shakes his head. “Werther?” 

“Yep,” Tony pops the p, raises his hand. “Well, I don’t mean to take all the credit-“

“Planting the drugs failed,” Alex doesn’t take his eyes off Hoover. “You get full credit for sabotaging the car.”

“Turns out if you want a job done right, you’ve got to do it yourself,” Tony sighs. 

Hoover’s eyes dart toward Alex’s gun, and the tell is enough for Alex to step forward at the same time Hoover does, one sharp elbow to the face followed by a kick to the groin that has Hoover bent double. 

“Bitch,” Hoover spits, and Alex grins, all sharp teeth. 

“Are you really so surprised?” Alex purrs his best Transatlantic, dropping the r’s and looking up through his lashes. 

Tony stands, holds up his wrists. One hand trembles faintly, and Hoover’s gaze darts to the deep scarring, still faintly pink. 

“It was hemp rope, wasn’t it?” Tony says conversationally. “For a while, I could only imagine metal restraints, because what else could cut that deep? But then I remembered you pulling the ropes tighter. Did you get them thin on purpose, or were you too stupid to know better? Wait,” Tony holds up his trembling hand. “Rhetorical. I have a better question. Remember that shitty B movie line you gave me, when I begged you to let me go?”

Hoover’s face is splotchy with anger, and he glares silently at the two omegas. 

“Let me help you,” Tony whispers like they’re sharing a secret. “You’re not getting out of here alive.” Tony pauses, watches Hoover’s breathing pick up and the shaking start. “You sure tried your best. Whatever gets you hard, I guess.” He shrugs. “Here’s another line for you: let’s take a walk.” 

Hoover is caught off-guard by this, flinches when Alex cocks his gun. 

“Calm down,” Hoover orders, enough Alpha oomph in his voice to make Alex show canines and Tony’s posture to go extra slutty, ostentatious. “You boys aren’t thinking clearly. What do you think you’ll accomplish with all this? Pluck us off one by one?” 

“That’s the general idea, yes,” Alex confirms, gritting his teeth to keep himself from shooting the man. It would make for a messy clean-up, but- 

Hoover laughs. “Do you know how many highly respected-“

“After you? Fifteen,” Tony says. “Don’t worry, I did the math right.”

Hoover seems to realize, for the first time, that he may be in danger. He glances out the window to the road, as if he hopes to spot some salvation there. He raises his hands. “Don’t shoot.” 

Outside, the wind has picked up, and Hoover shivers as he’s buffeted back and forth. With the open darkness around him, he looks small and old. He pauses six or seven feet from the ledge, looks up toward the house. His pupils have almost entirely eclipsed the watery green of his irises. 

“I disabled your panic button,” Tony says. “No one’s coming to help you. Bye, Sam.” 

“You little cunt,” Hoover barrels towards Tony, snarling. Alex steps forward, his footing careful, and knocks him backwards. 

In the dark, Hoover hasn’t seen the ice. 

Alex isn’t sure what he expected; perhaps that it would be difficult, or satisfying. It’s so quick that he has to stop himself from peering over the ledge, a hundred feet down into the moonless dark. 

_Get the car, get to the house with lead time, dump the body, ditch the car,_ Alex thinks. He’s never been so clear-minded, so sharp. He’s thinking of a thousand variables at once; the tire tracks already covered by the falling snow, Tony’s scan for recording devices, their scents on the furniture. All variables accounted for. 

The silver Camry is only just obeying the speed limit as they barrel down the highway. Alex glances over to Tony, uneasy at the lack of bitching about Toyotas on freeways. Tony is looking out the window, eyes not tracking the landscape as it passes by, barren white. The season of death. 

He imagines a skeleton lying on the ridge, bleached white, the bones picked clean of meat. 

_What’s the most vulnerable part of the human body?_

_The eyes._ He’d seen a National Geographic special on vultures, the soft, exposed tissue being torn from the bodies of small prey animals. 

It’s so sudden that Alex has to brake hard, tires slipping on the wet road. He can’t breathe, and he feels liquid rising to his throat, choking him. 

Sam Hoover’s paper-thin skin peeling back, age spots expanding with rot, one unseeing eye facing up towards his killer. 

The car skids on the gravel shoulder, and it hasn’t stopped completely before he opens the door and rolls out, hands and knees. He pulls himself up to stagger towards the ditch, vomiting where he expects there will be run-off in the morning. The acid burns his throat, and the taste makes him dry heave, muscles spasming. He shakes and shakes, waiting it out. He can’t leave vomit in the car. 

_Dump the car- no, dump the body, ditch the car-_

After a few long moments, Alex climbs back into the driver’s seat. He’s cold, and it doesn’t help to slow the trembling. It won’t do to stay here; some friendly officer might think they’ve broken down. The engine is still running, and Tony doesn’t turn at the gusts of cold air from the open door. 

Alex fights to regain control of himself. He breathes in; the strong scent of cleaner burns his nostrils, but it doesn’t upset him. It drowns the scent of Sam Hoover, still clinging to his wool coat. He registers a noise- gentle electronic dinging- and closes the door. Tony does not acknowledge him. 

Alex grips the wheel to steady his hands, and puts his foot on the gas. 

*

**Six Months Earlier**

Alex is already peeling out of his jacket when he waves Rob and Kenny off; the early summer heat is making him sweat, and he feels the muscles in his legs twitch as he climbs the stairs to Floor H. He’s nearly home. 

_“How is he?” His mother’s eyes were wide and liquid. The photographs hit TMZ this morning. He should tell Tony. It’s a lie of omission otherwise. He just can’t imagine how he might say the words._

_The house is very quiet; for once, the Richardsons don’t know what to say. Sarah offers to shoot bottles with him in the backyard, but Alex sees the potential for an interrogation and declines. He goes to lay in the bright green grass, thinks about the small purple shoots of crocuses, Tony sprawled across his lap in the sunlight. He doesn’t have to look up to know Nate and Kenny are keeping watch. He’s not safe, not even here._

Na Anderson’s door is open, but she’s not there. He can smell her mug of weedy tea, over steeped and left to go cold. 3H is missing the kava charts tacked to the door; they’ve been gone for several weeks, and a new student will be filling Mel’s room any day now. 

The door to 5H is open, and Alex pauses. The bed is made, the comforter tight and wrinkle-free. Even from this distance, he can see the dust that has accumulated on the small desk by the window. There are pictures taped to the wall- Alex recognizes Pig in his Storm Trooper outfit, Tony looking directly at the camera and grinning as he holds the class mascot aloft. Alex swallows, has to look away.

There’s a tuxedo draped over the chair, and Alex wonders at it. He doesn’t even bother to bring his bag to his own room before he turns around to head out across the grounds. There’s only one place Tony can be. 

Na Anderson is hammering at a thick piece of metal when Alex enters the shop. He watches her for a moment; it isn’t anything he recognizes, but she and Tony both have been creating things they never chose to before. The colorful cards of paint swatches have been covered by a large, professional blueprint, drafted with a steady hand. It’s a bomb, Alex realizes, nearly as large as the forge. A bucket of small metal balls sits on the floor nearby, and Alex feels the urge to pick up a handful, let them escape through his fingers like pearls. He imagines them exploding into wicked slivers of shrapnel. 

“I thought Obadiah was more of a blueprints man,” Alex calls, and Na Anderson looks up. “Mass production usually goes to the floor peons.”

“We have to test the mechanism,” Na Anderson says, too sharp, and Alex flinches. She notices, takes off her goggles, and sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her arm across her forehead. “It’s not- I’d never make it operational. Not anywhere the kids could see.” 

“Is he sleeping?” Alex asks. 

Na Anderson looks tired. “No.” 

In the back of the least used and dirtiest workshop, there’s a nook made of oak timer, concrete, and rebar. There’s a mattress on the floor with no pillows. The figure atop the mattress is hunched in a shapeless flannel, thick white socks poking out from beneath him. Alex can’t see Tony’s eyes, but he knows he’s being watched. 

“Hey,” Tony waves, disarming the sensors. Alex steps forward, lowers himself to sit on the cold floor. There are chunks of concrete that have cracked away from the rest of the floor; likely seeping groundwater.

“Hey,” Alex says. 

“You heard about the pictures?” Tony watches him. Alex tries not to react, he really does.

“Yes,” he says simply. 

Tony nods. “Obie told me. I made TMZ.”

Alex isn’t prepared for it when Tony throws the glossy color copies of the photographs across the floor. He can feel Tony’s eyes following him, and knows he doesn’t have a choice. He takes a deep breath, and looks at all of them, every expression of pain and fear. He can’t get upset. It’s not Tony’s job to comfort him right now. 

“Apparently I’m not only a dirty dirty slut, but a drug addict.” Tony laughs, stabs one of the photos where his eyes are glazed over, mouth half-open. “I mean, that’s what it looks like, doesn’t it?”

 _No_ , Alex thinks. “He told you that?” 

Tony shrugs. “He didn’t have to. Turns out the longer I’m away, the more they’re all convinced I’m locked away in rehab somewhere. The board is making the case that I’m unhinged.”

“Tony,” Alex starts, and the catch in his voice makes Tony look away. 

“They’re not wrong,” he says stubbornly. “I know I’m fucked up.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Alex says automatically. 

Tony just laughs, eyes wide with surprise. “If you believe that, you’re crazier than I am.” 

“You’re having a normal response to an abnormal situation,” Alex says, and Tony wrinkles his nose. 

“Look, I pay someone for shrink talk, alright?” 

Alex just waits. It’s the only way to get Tony to speak; otherwise, he’ll just parry. 

“I- it doesn’t reflect well, on the company,” Tony smells like shame, and Alex wants to scream. “Obie thought it’d be a good idea to turn up, show everyone I’m alright. Might make the media back down.” 

Alex grits his teeth and carefully does not say what he is thinking. He wonders if Obadiah knew he left the school for a few days; but that leads him down a path of paranoia uncomfortably close to Na Anderson’s. 

“You went alone?” Alex asks. 

“It was a public gala,” Tony huffs. “And no, there were about twenty Nosy Narkers there, courtesy of Na Anderson.” 

“I would’ve gone with you,” Alex says, before Tony can continue his tirade. 

Tony looks away. “I can be in public without you holding my hand.” 

Alex brushes the pictures away, moves forward. He aches to touch him. “What happened?” 

Tony stares at some point in the wall- the Kevlar shielding is peeling away. “They were there.”

Alex stiffens. “Who, darling?”

Tony looks at him, but he’s far away. “I remembered. I think it was- the way they smelled. And I started to remember their faces. I don’t have all the pictures, but,” he picks up one, points to a blurry comb-over. “Sam Hoover.” He picks up another photograph. “Stephen Atchison. Fiona Wildwood. Rich Werther.” 

Alex is momentarily so shocked he doesn’t notice the warning signs. By then, it’s too late. 

“Tony,” Alex says, voice faltering. 

Tony looks up from the photographs. “I don’t have all of the photos. Some journal sent theirs to the police a couple weeks back, but I’m working on it.” 

“Tony,” Alex tries to stay calm. “Do you remember your breathing exercise?” 

“They’re all out there,” Tony says, his eyes wild. His left hand is shaking as he touches the photographs, and Alex has seen him wince when the nerve pain shoots into his fingers. “Just, walking around.”

Alex watches it happen, and feels powerless.

“I can’t stop the thoughts,” Tony whispers, eyes wide and bloodshot. “I don’t want to remember.”

Alex curls his arms around himself. “I know, sweetheart,” he says, but Tony doesn’t hear him anymore. 

He’s not sure what the dissociation is like for Tony. If he relives it, if he feels it in his body, or if it’s more like watching a video over and over again. Sometimes, he’ll look straight at Alex, as if he’s trying to comprehend his presence in the room. Then his eyes will go hollow, body slack, staring at nothing. 

His first month back, Tony spent most of his time in some level of dissociation. The longest unresponsive spell had lasted hours, and Na Anderson had paced the floor of the workshop, unable to leave or to sit still. 

Alex uncurls himself, sweeps the photographs back into the manila folder. He settles in to wait, starts singing soft, low. 

_I look at you now, see the love there that’s sleeping._

An excruciating thirty minutes later, Tony’s gaze focuses on him. “Beatles, really?”

“AC/DC’s a bit harder to carry the tune,” Alex smiles. 

Tony snorts. “You could do Zeppelin.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Alex says. 

Tony checks his watch, sighs. “Damn. I’ve got to get the Khan finished,” he stands unsteadily, starts booking his way over to the workshop. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Alex jogs to keep up with him. 

“I told Obie I’d have it for him yesterday,” Tony mutters. 

“I’ve almost finished,” Na Anderson calls.

“Can’t even do the one thing I’m useful for,” Tony complains, but he slumps gratefully at the workbench. 

Alex sets two glasses of water in front of Tony. “I’ll come back with dinner.” 

Tony blinks, grabs the glass. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He starts babbling to Na Anderson, who takes the commentary gladly, tight lines of worry around her eyes easing. 

Alex slips out the door, takes a minute to recover from the whiplash in private. It’s a feeling he can only describe like this: he’s been swimming past exhaustion, feet searching to for a place to stand, the ocean floor meters below him. 

*

The next morning, Alex wakes up slowly, hoping for clarity. He feels as if he’s on the edge of some understanding, just out of reach. He’s so preoccupied he nearly misses the cluster of younger students, and might have ignored them if they hadn’t fallen into a hushed murmur at his entrance. 

Alex walks over, and in the center of the table he sees the print of Tony’s face from the gala yesterday. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated. The headline reads: ANTHONY STARK, COCAINE ADDICT? 

The paper is crumpled in Alex’s fist and tossed into the trash before he fully realizes it. He wants to shout, but he knows his anger isn’t towards this group of young, wide-eyed omegas. He sits down at the table, relaxes his body language. 

“Do you think it’s right to talk about Na Stark like this?” he says gently, and several of the students look away. Every student who has met Tony has liked him; he helps them with their homework, cheers them up, and his pranks are universally considered very cool. 

“We’re sorry, Na Richardson,” one of the students says, and she smells like shame. 

“You were curious,” Alex sighs. “But don’t bring it up with Na Stark, ok? He’s dealing with enough right now.” 

“Yes, Na Richardson,” they chorus. 

Nate and Kenny meet Alex in the dining hall, even though he’s only crossing the campus and it’s more than a little absurd. Still, after Tony’s marriage he knows that it’s likely the only reason his mother sleeps at night. They hang back when Alex approaches the workshop, not because Alex has asked them to, but because they know Tony will likely be there. It’s the only place in the world he feels safe, and they respect the unspoken rule: no alphas. 

Na Anderson is already up and soldering, and Alex watches the small puffs of smoke as the solder melts, hears the hiss of the iron on the wet sponge that has been the background of so many evenings spent here. Tony’s not in the shop, so he’s probably in his nook. He spends most of his spare time these days coding, trying to perfect his prototype AI. 

“This doesn’t require my full attention,” Na Anderson comments. “But I can-“

“No, keep working,” Alex waves a hand. “Did you see the article?”

“Yes.” 

“How can they do this?” Alex runs his fingers through his hair. 

Na Anderson gives him a kind look. Alex already knows her feelings towards the world at large, and maybe that’s why he’s asking her. 

“I don’t, I can’t accept it. Not the way you can.” 

“I don’t want you to.” 

“I don’t know what else I can do.”

“Change it,” she says simply. 

Alex laughs. “Yes, I’ll just do that then.”

“Start small,” she says. The iron hisses a cloud of steam; it’s delicate work, and she can’t drop any cooled solder onto the circuit board. “What do you have within your power?”

“None of us have any real power,” Alex gestures broadly to the school. “That’s the problem.”

Na Anderson rests the iron in the stand. “Honey, how many thousands of people do you think are using Fuck You right now?” 

Alex looks around the shop. “Should we-“

Na Anderson waves a hand. “No one can hear us. Tony’s been,” she looks down the corridor. “Very busy.” 

“A lot of people,” Alex admits. At this point, there may be hundreds of thousands of omegas with access to Fuck You globally. 

“And how many omegas are using one of your heat suppressants?” Na Anderson raises an eyebrow. “That you and Tom tested and reformulated until the side effects profile was low enough?” 

“What’s your point?” 

“Tony is moving away from Tri Tech,” Na Anderson rests her elbows on the workbench. “And I think Pepper Potts will go with him. You mostly run the operation yourself now, as it is.”

“Being a drug king pin isn’t what I’d imagined it to be when I was younger,” Alex reflects. “More IRS audits.”

“What does Tri Tech do?” Na Anderson asks. 

“We give people choices,” Alex answers. It’s a stock line, but he believes it. 

“That’s right,” Na Anderson says. “You give thousands of omegas the power to say no. Or yes.” 

Alex looks away. “Is that how you see me?”

Na Anderson reaches across the table, clasps Alex’s hand in her small, calloused one. “Things are about to change. We need to find you a place to stand.” 

“And I’ll move the world,” Alex finishes. He’s just realized there is a whole new language of no he can learn. “I have something I need to work on.” 

Na Anderson smiles. “Go. I’ll be here when you need me.” 

Nate and Kenny look surprised when Alex re-emerges so soon, but they pull immediately into a position that Alex mentally files under parade rest.

“I need to learn to defend myself,” Alex says without preamble. “Can you teach me?”

Nate and Kenny look at one another, then back at Alex. “Na Richardson,” Nate starts, “we’d never let anything bad happen to-“

Alex shakes his head. “I believe you’d protect me. I don’t mean to insult you. But you can’t always be there.” He looks at them both in turn; he’s never flinched from eye contact. “This isn’t in your job description. I can certainly ask elsewhere. But you’re the best at what you do. And,” Alex pauses. “I trust you.” 

Kenny gives Nate an eyebrow, and Nate nods. “We’ll need to get some equipment, before we start.”

“Oh,” Alex’s brow furrows. “Of course.”

“Protection for us, boss,” Kenny says, thick Boston accent dropping the r’s. “We can’t have you pull your punches. Practice going easy, and you won’t hit full force when you need to.” 

“That makes sense,” Alex nods. “Thank you.”

Kenny laughs. “Don’t thank us yet.”

*

“Kick!” Nate yells from the sidelines. 

Alex pulls his back leg forward, thigh smacking the plastic groin guard. He steps forward to recover his feet; Kenny isn’t on the ground. They’ve been playing harder targets, more force, more hits.

“Again! Again!”

Kenny grabs Alex behind his knees and topples him to the ground. He gets his legs out to kick the foam helmet, but Kenny grabs them. Alex launches forward, his fingers going for the netting covering the eye slits. It’s the first thing he learned; the eyes are the weakest part of the body. Always strike the eyes when you have an opening. 

Kenny goes to the ground, and Alex recovers to his feet, hands up. Kenny stays down. 

Nate snaps his helmet into place, and Alex turns to face him. They haven’t done multiple assailants at once, not yet, but they’re building up to it. With little else to do and a lot of anger to bring his body back to this mat, they’re progressing fast. 

Nate doesn’t go down when Alex attacks him from the front. He gets an arm around Alex’s neck from behind. Alex attaches the arm to his chest to protect his breathing and drops his weight, slaps him in the groin. The arm doesn’t let go. 

“Bite!” Kenny says, and Alex bites down hard on the foam wrist guards. Nate’s arm lets go, and Alex uses the full weight of his body to elbow the foam face. Nate goes down. Alex moves back into a ready stance, assessing, covering the space with his eyes. He breathes deep, feels his weight balanced on his feet, the solidity of the earth beneath him. 

Kenny tosses the helmet aside, goes for his water. “Nice job, boss.”

“In real life, people won’t be shouting cues,” Alex says dryly. 

“No, but you’ll hear them anyway,” Nate says. “I’ll be a little voice in your head. Kick ‘im!” 

Alex laughs. “You should harass me instead. That way, I’ll be prepared.” 

Kenny looks at Nate. “I don’t think-“ 

“He’s right,” Nate says, putting his water down. “Muscle memory’s different when you’re pumped full of adrenaline.” 

“What are you thinking?” Kenny looks at Alex. 

Alex shrugs. “Call me a bitch. Threaten to rape me.” 

The gym is very quiet for a moment; it’s summer now, and most of the students are traveling, or with family. 

Alex can see the struggle in Nate’s expression, knows he’s thinking about his little omega girl at home, just starting middle school. She’s bright, fierce, and Nate is so proud of her he shows photos to nearly everyone he meets. The only time Alex has ever seen him cry was after Tony came back that first night, covered in the scent of strange alphas and scratching at Na Anderson like an animal. 

“I don’t like this,” Nate says. 

“You know I’m right,” Alex says. “I’ve heard it before. I’ll hear it again. Let me do this.”

“You sure?” Nate asks. 

“Yes,” Alex says, firm. 

“Say the word, and I’ll stop,” Nate stands, buckles his helmet. 

“Ok,” Alex says. He puts his water away, steps into his strong stance. 

“You’re going to get yourself out of this,” Kenny says, but he looks worried. 

“Ready,” Alex says.

The foam face is anonymous, the body huge with muscle and padding. Alex feels the adrenaline hit, and he’s- calm. 

The attacker advances down the mat, ignores Alex’s warnings to back away. Tells him he’s a crazy bitch, that he’s going to teach him a lesson. He’s heard these words before, and they don’t affect him the way they used to. He feels focused, grounded. Predatory. 

Alex follows an eye strike with a groin kick, an elbow, and still he’s tackled to the ground. The attacker holds his arms, and Alex goes limp. 

“Wait for your opening,” Kenny says. 

Alex can’t kick while his hands are being held down, or the attacker will fall forward, on top of him. He waits. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

“That’s good,” the attacker praises, moves in like he’s scenting him. “Just do what I tell you.” 

Something has to change, Alex knows. He has to move, touch him, remove clothing. He waits. 

“That’s right. You know your place. You can’t help it.”

Alex feels the grip loosen, and as soon as the hands let go he darts forward, strikes the eyes. He feels the snarl rip from his throat, sees Kenny flinch in the background. 

“NO,” he shouts, and it’s a command, projecting with breath drawn from his gut the way Sa Honeycutt taught him. He moves away from the downed assailant, gets up to his feet, assesses the room. Then he starts to giggle. 

He feels a wild, fierce kind of joy. This is some part of himself he’s been hiding, something polite society has trained out of him. No, no, no. With the adrenaline still crashing through him, he’s never felt more alive. 

“You got a screw loose, boss,” Kenny says proudly. 

*

Tony is pouring over the photographs again when Alex comes to him. He has a set of three ring binders and a hole punch, and the stacks of photographs are full-page and high-res. 

“You cut your hair,” Tony frowns. “I don’t like it.” 

“Less to grab hold of. Are these going somewhere?” Alex asks. 

“Yep,” Tony says. “The board meeting. Tomorrow.” 

Alex sucks in a breath. “Do you want help?”

“You can hole punch,” Tony hands over a binder. “Pepper doesn’t want to do it. I made her cry.” 

“I don’t think you,” Alex starts. “Nevermind.” 

Tony stares down at one of the pictures, and Alex stiffens. He’s starting to drift. 

“Werther,” Tony points to a beer bottle in the photo. “I just remembered. He was the one that used-“

“Tony,” Alex draws the command into his voice; powerful, deep, but not sharp. Tony’s head snaps up. 

“Can you listen to me, darling?” Alex asks, and Tony nods. 

“That’s good,” Alex says, and watches the tension leave Tony’s shoulders. “You’re very good. Can you breathe in with me?” Alex breathes audibly, demonstrating, and Tony follows. 

“Hold your breath, just for a second. Now let it out, slowly. Again. Are you here with me?” 

Tony nods. 

“That’s good. Can you talk to me?” 

“I hate that therapy speak has infiltrated your sexy Dom voice,” Tony whines. 

Alex laughs. “I can’t always be sexy.”

“Bullshit,” Tony says, but he looks shy. “Points for effectiveness though, I guess.” He sighs. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“I’ll keep watch,” Alex says automatically. He doesn’t know where the words came from, but they feel right. “I mean,” he backtracks, “if you want-“ 

“Yes,” Tony says. “I’d like that.” 

Alex relaxes. “I’ll get some coffee.” 

Tony opens his mouth. 

“No,” Alex laughs, and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. It’s a natural movement, one he’s done hundreds of times before when Tony’s being a brat, playful. It’s also something he hasn’t done since before the marriage, since Tony’s body has made it clear he doesn’t want to be touched. He pulls back, an apology on his lips. 

“Try that again,” Tony says, and puckers his lips, ostentatious. 

Alex choreographs the movement, leaning in without touching Tony’s face so he can back away if he wants to. Tony presses forward, and shivers when their lips touch. It doesn’t feel like a bad sign, but Alex draws back anyway. 

“Be right back.” 

*

The next day, Alex sits on Tony’s bed in 5H as he strips out of his suit and fumbles the buttons on his silk shirt, shaking from head to toe. He moves to cover the scars on his neck, sometimes, but he isn’t body shy. Hasn’t been since the first marriage. 

“So, Mr. Big Dick starts swinging, ‘Do you know who I am?’, and you should’ve seen this alpha bitch go to town on him,” Tony wiggles out of a thin grey sock. “’I would hunt you down like a dog.’ Mr. Big Dick backed right the fuck up. You’d’ve loved it.” 

“I’m sure,” Alex says, amused. “So you’re in control of SI, now.”

“Not on paper,” Tony says. He peers at his drawer of wadded up t-shirts, sniffs one, and pulls it over his head. “But, yeah.”

“Congratulations, darling,” Alex tosses him a pair of sweatpants he found behind the bed. 

“Alex,” Tony sits down on the bed next to him, leans his head on his shoulder. “I think I’m about to crash to a new level of fucked up. Like, meteor slamming into the earth, no algae left behind.” 

“How so?” 

Tony sighs. “It’s harder to keep the memories in the past, when I keep seeing them. When I know they’re out there, waiting. They’re pissed at me. Probably already making plans to kill me off and take their shares back. Or worse.” 

Alex feels a cold stab of fear at this; Tony’s paranoia is something of legend now, but it’s not so far-fetched. 

“I want to kill them,” Tony says. “I think I might do it.” 

_I’d hunt you down_ Alex thinks. It’s not a practice that’s in favor anymore, branded as vigilantism. But they learn about it in deportment, and every once and a while there’s some sensational headline about a suspected pack hunt in the papers. 

Alex thinks about going hunting on his own, about wiping out every person who raped Tony while he struggled and cried and begged. He thinks part of him knew that all roads were leading here, that he needed to prepare for this. He also knows that it isn’t right for him to go behind Tony’s back. The agency, the power belongs in Tony’s hands. Tony will tell Alex what he wants, and Alex will do it. 

“I’ll do it,” Alex says. “If you want to start a hunt, I’ll to help you.” 

Tony sits up, looks at him. “No. Alex, I don’t want you to touch this. This shit could get you put in prison.” Alex hears the unsaid words; Tony assumes he’ll be caught, and he doesn’t care. He’s thought about this before. 

“They’d have to catch me first,” Alex says airily. “If they get me for anything, darling, it’ll be the illegal drug enterprise I assume Pepper is about to hand me.” 

“I don’t want to drag you through my shit. I,” Tony looks away. “You’re… good. I want you to stay here. Be safe.” 

Alex cups Tony’s jaw, a light brush of fingers. “That kind of safety doesn’t exist for people like us. Not in the law, not in society. We know that.” 

“It has to be all of them,” Tony says. “I’m not going to stop.” 

“I know,” Alex says. “You won’t be alone.” 

Tony looks away, submissive. “Ok.” 

*

A week later, Reeves is hit. Tony thinks it was Obadiah. Alex isn’t so sure. In any case, it doesn’t matter; the hunt has started. 

*

“Prominent Richard Werther has been stabbed after an altercation in his prison cell. Werther maintains his innocence, stating to the press that the illegal amount of Desiras was planted on him by a business rival. Werther is expected to make a full recovery…”

“Damn,” Alex whispers, worrying his lip with his teeth.

*

Tony’s mechanism is seamless, designed first to lock the breaks then burn on impact. Alex would nearly call it beautiful in its simplicity.

“Embattled financier Richard Werther was found dead after his automobile slipped on a patch of ice traveling down a scenic road at night…”

“Car slipped on a patch of ice,” Tony comments. “I guess that’d make sense.”

*

Tony is vibrating with the effort of holding himself still at the doorway of English Comp. Sa Honeycutt rolls her eyes at Alex’s ungainly tumbling down the stairs, but her lips twitch with amusement. Tony grabs Alex’s hand, and they run across the manicured green grass. Alex tumbles Tony down next to the giant, shady oak, and Tony laughs, tickles Alex’s sensitive ankles to make him squeak. They settle into a comfortable pile, Tony’s head on Alex’s lap while Alex pets his hair. 

“Good day?” Alex asks. 

“Fucked-up bitch levels lower than usual,” Tony acknowledges. The sunlight shining through the leaves shows that his body is a little more relaxed, at ease. His breathing is steady and even. Alex is so glad he can barely speak. This gets to him more, now- the good moments. 

“I’m thinking of buying a PVC company with my drug lord money,” Alex says casually. 

“You should,” Tony turns his head to look up at him. “It’s what you really love doing. And you’re damn good at it.” 

“In the very least, it’ll give me something to talk about at dinner parties.” 

“I bought a house,” Tony says. “More of a warehouse really, but I’m fixing it up.”

“Oh,” Alex says. The sun has already begun setting; it’s one of the last warm days of the year, and Alex wants to hold on tight as he feels it passing. 

“I can’t mooch around here forever,” Tony says. “It’s about time I tried being an adult.”

“I’m happy for you,” Alex lies. It’s selfish. He knows it is. He says the right words, but it doesn’t change how he feels. He wants Tony to stay here with him forever. Safe. 

“I was thinking,” Tony fiddles with the seam of Alex’s pants. “It’s probably not safe for you to come to SI functions. For people to see us together.”

“You think they’d suspect?” Alex looks down at him. 

“Right,” Tony says, but Alex knows Tony’s body. He can smell the lie. 

“I won’t go, if you’d rather I didn’t,” Alex says. “But you’ll attend the celebration when I acquire Price?”

“Getting ahead of yourself,” Tony laughs. 

“Not really,” Alex sniffs. “I bet I’ll seal before the end of the month.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Tony looks up at him, and Alex recognizes the emotion there, has seen it on his own face in mirrors and photographs. 

“I love you,” Alex says, because he can’t help it. 

Tony leans up and kisses him. This close, he smells afraid. 

*

_Sam Hoover, 78, has passed away at his cabin in the Adirondacks after a tragic slip on an icy ledge. Early season snow storms are a hazard in the area, and rangers warn that even clear conditions can change rapidly…_

**Author's Note:**

> hi I'll be over here reading Rikki Tikki Tavi and crying
> 
> I feel like I didn’t answer the question I prompted myself with (quote in the summary) but I enjoyed the heck out of writing this all the same!
> 
> Edit: if ur wondering whether I keep obsessively checking this to see if anyone commented the answer is yes


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